


be my anchor, be my moor (pull my heart onto your shore)

by Roccolinde



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, F/M, Face-Sitting February is a thing, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, Mutual Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Semi-Public Sex, Soft sleepy sex, The Month In Winterfell (and beyond), canon-divergent from 8x04, mild edging, this was meant to be a series of smutty character studies but it's honestly just porn, very mild kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22963960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde/pseuds/Roccolinde
Summary: A series of smutty standalone ficlets set in the same timeline
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 213
Kudos: 470
Collections: J/B Monthly Madness: February 2020, J/B Monthly Madness: March 2020, J/B Monthly Madness: May 2020





	1. Fields of Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I'll be blunt. I wrote two excellent character-study-through-smut fics in the same timeline: [(every single one of us) still left in want of mercy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20032558) and [you have come by way of sorrow (you have come by way of tears)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20289736). I have thought for months there was a third fic in the story, examining communication via mild kink. This... meant to be that fic, and is very much not. It's porn. Consider it an AU of an AU--same idea of Cersei sending a letter north and Jaime staying in Winterfell, some overlapping dialogues, but this is the porny version.
> 
> I may be posting this after saying I wouldn't just because the idea of an oral sex chapter getting called Fields of Gold was fucking hilarious to me.
> 
> And immense thanks to Luthien and ImberReader for feedback, headpats, etc. as the situation required. ♥

She’s not expecting him at the door. Not expecting his blustered words about rules and games, or the strange sort of nervousness that is laced with certainty—certainty that he knows her, that he is welcome, that… She’s not expecting any of it, except, of course, she is. It would be foolish not to see their paths would lead them here, and however unlikely it seems even now…. She wipes her palm against her trousers, continues the conversation. Games and rules and jealousy, and a strange sort of hope that takes root in her chest. 

Perhaps if she—if they—were different, it would blossom at the way he nervously tugs at the laces of his shirt, or the slow rise of his hand to the laces of hers. But it burrows instead, roots digging deeper into the tender flesh of her heart and she _can’t_ be certain but she _is_ , and against her own expectations her hands do not tremble as she divests them both of a layer. 

“I've never slept with a knight before,” he says, and all the things exposed in his words leave her breathless.

She knows. They know. None of this is… One vulnerability deserves another, though, and so she says, “I've never slept with anyone before.” 

“Then you have to drink,” he says, the jut of his chin daring her to back down and the hoarseness of his voice asking her not to. “Those are the rules.” 

“I told you—”

He surges. 

The kiss is hard, a clashing of lips and teeth she’s not entirely certain she’d enjoy if it wasn’t _Jaime_ , but it is, his hand in her hair and the warmth of his skin beneath her palm, and it moves into an instinctual parrying, a beat, then two, and she’s directing him towards the bed, his breath ragged when they break apart just long enough to shed the last of their clothes. He sprawls atop the furs and she pauses, just a beat, expecting it to be a dream, expecting to realise that she is dying upon Winterfell’s ramparts as the wights close in; he reads something else in her expression though, because he reaches out, a skim of heated fingers against her palm, her wrist, her forearm, so tender and longing that she knows she could never imagine such a thing. She waits for the words that will come— _Are you certain, ser?_ or _Perhaps we should..._ —but all he does is smile, and the hard knot of expectations that have followed her for years unravel, flitter away as if they are made of nothing heavier than gossamer. 

“It’s cold,” he says instead of anything else, fingers closing around her forearm just firmly enough to pull her towards the bed, and she laughs.

“Hot, cold, are you ever satisfied?” she teases, feeling so impossibly unfettered; moves the furs so they can both slide beneath, reaches out to cup his cheek, presses a laughing kiss against his mouth.

His fingers glide up her arm, the sensation like the crackling pops of a woodfire. “I dearly hope we both shall be, soon.”

“A true master of seduction,” she says, just a little pompously, buries her smile against the corner of his lips when he grimaces. “However can I withstand it, Ser Jaime? My maidenly reason flees before your prowess! My limbs tremble in anticipation!”

“Piss off,” he growls, rolling her atop him. “I only meant—”

She kisses him; softer, slower than the kiss before, still a little strange, still Jaime. His right arm holds her flush against him, the slight coolness of his golden hand a strange contrast on her heated skin. “I know,” she whispers. 

It’s torturously slow, kiss upon kiss, the press of skin as she twines a leg around his, the strange humming as he runs his fingers through her hair. She is reminded, absurdly, of a lit candle—the initial flame that dies down, smolders as no more than a red-hot glow, the moment it is uncertain whether the light will catch or be extinguished by the wax, and then… He’s coaxed her mouth open and it is no longer strange, the mingled breath and the wet heat of his mouth and the way she demands more, the way it echoes through her body, a familiar sensation in unfamiliar circumstances; her hips rock against his thigh and the feeling makes her whimper, makes her _want_ with a heat that shocks her. Pleasure has never been like _this_ before, never made her feel so… 

“Brienne,” he says.

_Exposed._

She freezes, and he follows.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks—quietly, without judgement—and it is enough; enough to remember where she is, and why, and with who, enough not to fret. 

She shakes her head. “No, I’ve just…”

“Never done this before,” he says. His hand has dropped from her hair to her shoulder, and he gives it a soft squeeze. “On your knees, ser, and then come here.”

She rocks back onto her haunches and looks at him in confusion, and he gives a soft smile, the one he seems to reserve for her. 

“I doubt we have concerns about your maidenhead—” 

Her mouth drops. “I assure you—”

He laughs, and it makes the corners of his eyes scrunch in a way that has no business being as attractive as it is. “There are plenty of ways it can be lost, Brienne. Examinations are a convenient way to back out of a marriage without blame, and the maester is given quite a lot of coin to find the right result.” His brow furrows. “You didn’t know?” 

“I… didn’t have reason to know, I suppose.” How _repulsive_.

“No matter,” Jaime says, with a blitheness of one whose marriage prospects couldn’t be destroyed on a whim, his attention already back on the matter at hand. “It can be… uncomfortable. The first time, or if you haven’t…” He gives a sigh, worries his lip between his teeth. “It can help, to have hands or mouths or— If you come here, brace yourself on the wall, you can control how much I touch you, if you feel… overwhelmed, or…” 

And she knows the wine is warming her blood, but mostly it’s just the earnestness in his eyes that causes heat to run through her at his words. She walks up the bed on her knees, flushing as his hand encourages her to straddle his face, and places her palms against the rough stone wall. His right arm moves to her hip; the hand is still cold, and she flinches, falling back far enough she can see the twist of his features. 

“It’s unsightly, I know.”

“It’s cold,” she corrects. “Can we remove it?”

He hesitates and she almost regrets asking, but then he shifts his arm so she can loosen the straps, removing first the hand and then the cover beneath. It’s only when she turns to place them on the small table next to the bed that she realises the absurd image they must make, naked in bed and distracted by trivialities, and when she shifts back she leans down to kiss him. It’s more familiar, this time, the way his lips part and his tongue strokes, and the scruff of his beard is rough against her palm, an anchor. She could do this for hours, she thinks, if it weren’t for the lingering arousal of their earlier kisses. Pulling back, she does her best to seem confident as she says, “Should I…?”

“Yes, please,” he groans, and she moves again, back to her previous position, trying not to think too deeply about—

His right arm wraps around her thighs, holding her steady as his hand brushes the sensitive skin on the inside, his palm skimming, up, down, up, whisper soft and yet the most important sensation in the world in the moment. She closes her eyes, revels in the feeling. And then his fingers, gentle and callused, slip between the lips of her cunt, spreading them, the cool air of the room and the warmth of his breath hitting at the same moment and _fuck_ , it strikes her like the blunt edge of a blade: desire, unadorned and heavy.

“Lovely,” he exhales, unaware of her thoughts. “There’s very little prettier.”

Brienne snorts, thinking _pretty_ is a word for something less… _visceral_ comes to mind, bone deep and desperate and unyielding. A word for something delicate and ethereal, not raw and— 

His thumb strokes against the flesh between her lips and she recoils.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, turning his head enough to press a soft kiss against her thigh. “Too rough?” 

“No,” she says, shaking her head. It wasn’t… “A little?”

She hadn’t expected it. The directness. She shifts to see his face, the glint in his eyes and slight curve of his mouth as he drops his hand away to stick his fingers into his mouth, and _oh_ there’s a hunger there that gnaws at her, and...

“Again,” she says, moving above him; his beard scratches against her thigh as he obliges.

It’s… odd, still. Strange and unexpected when he parts the lips again, nudges the space between with his nose, breathes deeply. Strange, but not unpleasant. He is so careful, waits until she relaxes before using his fingers, then his tongue, and then he does… _something_ , the sudden flare of _good_ too much to let her note what, and _fuck_ the muscles of her legs begin to tremble, and if it wasn’t for her hands against the wall, his arm around her thighs holding her steady… Her hips rock on their own accord, begging him to do it again. 

He does, and she swears so loudly that he groans, the sound vibrating against her. 

It surprises her, how good it is now they have found a rhythm, how quickly she loses sight of the absurdity of the actions, how the whitehot tension twists around itself until she thinks—

“Faster,” she gasps, whimpers, pleads, fuck she doesn’t even _know_ , it’s not what she expected, not what it’s like when she touches herself, and he does, faster, deeper, his fingers moving and she thinks she must shout, there’s no way she doesn’t shout, but it’s all pleasure, blinding pleasure that leaves her unaware of anything else.

Gods save her, when she pulls back, muscles shaking, his beard fucking _glistens_ with the evidence of where his mouth has just been, what it has done, and she kisses it from his lips, a musky, almost bitter flavour that makes her… She remembers his words, about it can help to have this _before_ , and—

She rolls them both over, so he’s above her, nestled between her legs, kisses him. Feels the hard jut of his cock against her and rolls her hips, the sensation more than pleasant in the aftermath of her climax, and then…

He studies her face so carefully as he shifts his weight to his right arm, reaches between them with his left to align himself and push inside. She’s so wet that there is no discomfort, but he’s right, it’s… odd, but good, not at all what she expected, and she wraps her legs around his waist and encourages him to move, until she forgets to have expectations at all. 


	2. The Sound of Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The silly song joke titles continue, though there was less "Be silent so you don't get caught" than planned, but such is life. This is, tragically, not sufficient for mouth-fucking March (y'all better get on that little piece of brilliance), but there's fingerbanging and blowjobs so it's not all bad.
> 
> Also, I'm aiming to update this every Saturday, we'll see how long that lasts. 😂

The week after the battle, it is all either of them can do to get through meetings and reconstruction shifts and then collapse into their now-shared bed at night, and it is a toss-up whether sleep or sex finds them first. Jaime wishes there was more energy, or a chance to stay abed for hours so he could learn every single way to bring her apart, but there’s something welcoming in this too, the gentle coming together and the exploration of how to share a bed when neither of them are accustomed to it. 

He’s still relieved when, on their assigned morning of rest, she drags him from beneath the furs for training in the yards. He grumbles about it, lacing their conversation with all the things he’d rather be doing and delighting when a particular suggestion turns her cheeks scarlet, but the truth of it is that it is good to have a sword in his hand once more. Particularly like this, in the early morning light with a worthy opponent and the only stakes a matter of pride. 

Quite frankly, he’d happily surrender all pride the moment Brienne begins to fight. She’s _magnificent_ , she always is, but in this moment it is overpowering; he remembers her in the fight against the undead, the screaming ceaselessness of the masses and the fear and the pain and still bloody wonderful despite its awfulness, but this? Good swordplay is an artform and she has mastered it, every bit of her body a part of something larger, and then her sword strikes his and there’s space for no thoughts but this dance, thrust and parry and the slide of blade against blade and the light in her eyes. 

He does not know how long they are fighting, only that they are sweaty and heaving when she calls an end to the sparring, and he expects her to very properly inform him that his swordwork was adequate, and if he’s very lucky there will be a hint of a smile when she does. He doesn’t expect her fingers to wrap around his wrist, doesn’t expect the way she gently tugs, doesn’t expect...

The armory is two rooms, and she pulls him through the first and into the second. Then she pushes him against the wall and she’s _kissing him_ , _she_ is kissing _him_ , with an edge of desperation that has his hand scrambling to get beneath her cloak, her shirt, gods he wants her skin, and she hisses when he finds it.

“Cold,” she says hastily, biting at his lower lip, and how, _how_ is this woman real, all honour and solemnity and secret passion? “Keep—” 

Another hiss as his fingertips dig into her back, and she steps closer, so it’s cold stone behind him and her blinding heat in front and it’s enough to make his knees weak. But she has him, she’s between his legs and her body is against him and she’s just… He surges up to keep kissing her, to taste the salt of her exertion, to—

“Brienne,” he says, his voice cracking, but gods he loves to say it. 

Her only reply is some sort of throaty murmur, and he can do better than _that_ , so he keeps kissing her, slides his hand from back to hip to the laces of her trousers. Tugs them lightly in question. Bites back a moan when she nods her assent, loosens the ties just enough that he can slip his hand inside. She’s so hot there, hot and wet and responsive, whimpering into his mouth when his fingers slide through the curls to find the places that please her best. 

Gods, he hasn’t had enough time with her, hasn’t spent nearly enough time learning how to please her, to leap past every defense just to see her fall apart, but he knows this at least, the rhythm of circles and strokes that has her rutting against his hand, moaning against his mouth. It’s tight, with her trousers and the wall and the press of their bodies, but he keeps moving, coaxing, slips a finger inside, then two. 

“Brienne,” he groans, twisting his fingers in that way that makes her breathless, and he _wants_ , he wants so badly, and so he _does_ , he strokes and moves and gods he isn’t even certain what he’s doing because he’s just following her and now her eyes are glassy and she’s forgotten that she’s supposed to be kissing him and her hips are pulsing in a stuttered rhythm that means she’s close and she’s _so damn magnificent like this_ that he forgets everything _but_ this, and she’s moving faster now, grinding against his palm and he matches her, places his golden hand against her neck to pull her closer, hold her steady, and this time when he says her name… 

She has just enough presence of mind to muffle her wail against his shoulder and she’s gone, her body so taut and then so languid; he presses a kiss against her hair when he pulls his hand away, smiling at the way her body follows absently. Then he lifts his fingers to his mouth to suck the wetness from them, the scent and the taste a heady combination, as she watches; she bites her bottom lip _shyly_ , as if the same fingers hadn’t just been knuckle deep in her cunt, her eyes wide, and suddenly he is aware of his own pressing desires. 

He’s going to have a hell of a time getting back to their quarters with any dignity. And he does intend to go back, except she takes his hand and licks those same fingers and _fuckfuckfuck_ the back of her hand brushes against his trousers and _fuck_ he might just—

“Brienne.”

There’s no dignity left, not that she’s asking any of him. She releases his hand and sinks to her knees and _there is no way she intends to, they’ve done this before but not here, not **here**_ —but she does, her hands gliding over his ass as she lowers his trousers, one coming round to wrap around his cock, and he’s really fucking glad that he’s still against the wall when her mouth follows because _fuckfuckfuck how the fuck does she_ — He cups her head with his hand, an anchor against his body’s sudden urge to float away or thrust against her, and leans back, loses himself to the sweep of the tongue and the strokes of her callused hand and the warm, wet heat that feels like… _fuck, she’s incredible and he’s so close already, how the fuck is she.._.

It takes him far too long to register the voices in the other room. Fuck. 

“Brienne,” he whispers, a warning, and he hates how even fucking now he looks down and sees the pale blonde of her eyelashes against her cheek and— “Brienne.”

She doesn’t respond. The voices are a little louder, two men, something about training swords, and he tries to pull away, urge her mouth off him even though it’s the last thing he wants, he’s so close that it is taking every bit of his control to manage another strangled, “Brienne, you need—” but the wall is at his back and she misunderstands his words because she hums, _she fucking hums_ , around his cock, her tongue sweeping over the head, and _fuck it’s too late_ , he’s gasping and spending in her mouth and he hopes to the gods that the soft clanging of metal in the other room room is enough to cover the sound.

“Brienne,” he hisses, and _gods save him_ she looks up at him with a look of hazy delight and next time they are doing this in their quarters where he can kiss her properly in the aftermath, but for now— “Company,” he says, gesturing with his head.

“Fuck,” she whispers, pulling his trousers up as she stands, tying the laces with a speed he could not manage. “Should we…”

“Wait,” he says; the voices are growing quieter, so Jaime can only presume the weapons were found. He meets her eyes, concerned. “Are you—”

She _laughs_ , Brienne of Tarth fucking _laughs_ , her hands coming up to cover her face and her shoulders shaking as she tries to remain quiet, and then he’s laughing too.

“Next time,” she whispers, and she’s still smiling, this is what she allows herself to be with him, so bloody _magnificent_ that he doesn’t have words for it, “we lock the armory door.”

He steps closer to press his forehead against hers, and they stay that way until they are certain the men are gone.


	3. Ice, Ice Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We won't talk about what time I am posting this, or the fact I titled this chapter Ice, Ice Baby. I cannot be held responsible for typos at this point.

Brienne is half-asleep when Jaime slips into the room, so quietly that she is not aware he is there until the furs shift and a hint of cool air hits her back, followed by an even colder body—chest to back and arm at her waist and _fucking freezing icicles_ that he would claim are toes brushing against her calves. It’s even worse when his hand inches up to cup her breast, fingers so cold she gasps when they find her nipple, because he buries his face against her shoulder and chuckles softly.

“Sorry,” he says, nestling closer in a way that makes it clear he’s not the least bit apologetic.

“I’m to be up before dawn,” she murmurs, a protest that would be far more believable if she did not shift back as she says it, to press his soft cock against her arse. 

She feels his smile in the brush of his beard against her shoulder blade, sighs when it turns into open-mouthed kisses against her skin. 

“I’ll let you sleep then, shall I?” he asks, as if the words do not rumble through her. “Or I could…” fingers trace the underside of her breast, callused skin against soft, “I could always…”

She parts her legs, the tension in her body at his chilled touch fading into a wonderful sort of laxness. Turns her head just enough to see him, kiss him ever-so-sleepily. Lets her eyes drift shut as his hand moves down her body, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake.

“How was your evening?” she asks.

“Cold,” he replies, skirting around her cunt to stroke her thighs, as if aware of the chill still lingering in his fingers. “I’m not certain the night duty isn’t meant to freeze the unwanted to their graves without dirtying the queen’s hands.”

Brienne gives a hum, not entirely certain herself, and drops her head against the pillow. “She’ll be headed south soon enough.”

Jaime grunts in agreement. “And I,” he says, his finger sliding back from her thighs to her stomach to trace whorls there, “will remain here, still freezing my balls off and happy for the chance. You did thank Lady Sansa on my behalf?”

“Of course,” Brienne replies, feeling the corner of her lips tug into a smile. “Even with the best of intentions, I was sure you’d put your foot in your mouth and she’d rescind the offer of hospitality.”

He bites her shoulder and pulls her against him, and she laughs. 

“Vicious woman,” he scolds. “Just for that, I’ll leave you to your rest.”

Promptly releasing his hold on her, he rolls over, and she counts all the way to seven before he rolls back, kisses her shoulder again. 

“Brienne,” he purrs, nuzzling against her neck, all deliberate seduction. “How tired are you truly?”

She tilts her head back, to give his lips more space. “I’m not fucking you.”

“Not precisely what I had in mind,” Jaime chuckles, wrapping his arm around her once more. “Though the gods know I would not say no. It really is bloody cold outside.”

“Sleeping,” she replies, burrowing deeper under the furs and rubbing against his hardening cock in a movement so smooth he groans. It is no more than he deserves, because her sleepy state is quickly becoming precarious and she really must rise early, but her traitorous body clearly has its own thoughts on the matter. She sighs. “What did you have in mind?”

“Your enthusiasm gratifies me, ser,” he says, but whatever bite of petulance in his words is gone when he exhales and kisses her neck once more. “Sleep, Brienne.”

He releases her to roll over, sincerely this time, and the absence of his weight at her back leaves her oddly bereft. They do not sleep entwined, decades of ingrained habits more powerful than sentiment, but the parting is so very rarely deliberate. There is the soft _snick_ of a tin being opened, and the familiarity of the sound surprises her—it is an ointment, mostly beeswax and a small amount of lard scented by flowers from Winterfell’s glasshouse gardens, meant to protect the skin against the drying nature of the harsh cold—but it surprises her more how she _listens_ , waits for the sigh of relief as Jaime rubs it between hand and stump, for the lid being replaced and the way he settles down to sleep. The former comes but not the latter, and after a moment she realises why; the slightest movement of the furs, a stifled sigh. The urge to roll over, to open her eyes and watch him touch himself, the way she’d catch his silhouette in the firelight—his head tipped back and his lips parted, and…

“What were you thinking?” she asks, her back still turned, her eyes still closed, not quite willing to forego the illusion of sleep.

He gives a huffed laugh, as if he knows all that she is thinking, and manoeuvres so he is against her back once more, his ointment-slick cock against the cheek of her arse, hard now.

“Impossible woman,” he murmurs, “I wanted to hold you.”

“Only hold me?”

His huff is against her ear this time, a gust of warm air ghosting across its shell, and she shivers, the prickle of gooseflesh sharp on her skin. “I wanted to touch you, perhaps,” he whispers.

She arches back against him, and gods this moment of skin to skin is always so… “Do it, then,” she exhales. 

He does, fingers stroking down her arm, across her stomach, and it’s… intimate, gentle and knowing; her body goes lax. 

“I wanted…” he voices trails off and she _whimpers_ , desperate to know how he meant to finish the sentence; his fingers skim downwards, “I wanted my cock between these lovely strong thighs,” he says, all in one quick exhale, and her legs part in encouragement. 

He moves away, but is back in a moment, and he murmurs how magnificent she is as his fingers, now slick with more ointment, stroke the inside of her thighs, the heat and friction melting it into a fragrant oil; he shifts downward, just a little, to position his cock, to encourage her thighs to press around it, and begins to move. It’s different, in this still-sleepy place, slow and slick, her arousal not the desperate heights that leave her clawing against his skin and moaning against his mouth but something… _languid_ , like the blood in her veins has turned to honey, sweet and heavy, his lips gentle and his touch… she allows it to happen, sinks into the pleasure like a warm bath rather than a crashing wave, even as his rhythm speeds up, just a little. 

“Brienne,” he whispers, “Brienne, I—” His words are swallowed by a grunt, his body bowing against hers as he comes.

They lie there in the aftermath, skin against skin and so _easy_ , fingers intertwined as they drift in this moment of suspended bliss; eventually he rubs his chin against her shoulder, slips from beneath the furs in search of a cloth to clean them both. The cool air against her skin signals his return, and he wipes his spend from her thighs, and then he presses a kiss against her neck. 

“Sleep,” he says, his voice warm. 

She does. 


	4. Dance Me to the Edge of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Yes, I know the song title is to the END of love. I do not care, the joke takes precedence.  
> (2) I spent waaaay too much time debating whether the degree of aggressive cunnilingus in this fic was enough to merit tagging it for the JB Monthly Madness: Mouthfucking March. I don't think it is, but I am a completionist and easily persuaded. 😉  
> (3) I have to thank Luthien, languageintostillair, kirazi, and SarahToo (who does not even go here) for looking this fic over in its various stages. Let us all hope that your suggestions for improvement were enough to counter my bad habits.

A fortnight after the army marches south, Jaime wins their morning spar. There’s no question what prize he is likely to claim—if she were anyone other than Brienne he might accuse her of losing on purpose, but she’s both too stubborn and too honorable to do such a thing—but he’s still smug as he undresses her that evening. Still smiling as he presses her to the bed, all pale skin and long limbs against dark furs. Still laughing when his hand on her hip makes her jump in surprise.

“Relax,” he murmurs, leaning forward to kiss her lips softly. “I want to try something.”

He’s not quite sure how to explain it, dancing with one’s climax along the edge of a blade and holding it there, building it time and time again. Isn’t certain it will be the same for her as it was for him, the intensity he’d discovered half by accident as he’d fumbled with his left hand in the aftermath of his maiming. But gods, he wants to try. Wants to take her apart so completely that even the veneers of honour and control and duty are stripped away and he can see the magnificent, blinding core of her.

She looks at him, skeptical, when he settles himself between her legs, drifts his hand up her thigh, his thumb ghosting over her cunt in a tease of what is to come. Her mouth twists into a scowl when he doesn’t follow through.

“Is it a new way to annoy me?” she asks.

He barks out a laugh and rests his cheek against her thigh, thumb still moving. The warmth, the scent of her sends a rush of blood to his cock, and he closes his eyes for a moment, allowing it to wash over him. He hadn’t expected sex with Brienne to be… _this_ , in all its many forms. Playful and unhurried, or tender and sweet, or… gods, even when it’s wildly passionate, teeth and nails and her hand wrapped around his cock and both of them aware she could tip the scales into unwelcome pain so easily, even then it’s a _game_ , one they both win, and he loves her, he loves her so much he thinks he could drown beneath it.

“Jaime.” She nudges his head with her thigh. “I’m not a pillow.”

He glances up and she’s _laughing_ at him, he can see it in her eyes and her pressed lips and the way her shoulders shake just a little, and he’s not having _that_ —he grins at her with all the feral desire in him just to see her blush, which she very nearly does, and then his mouth is on her, unapologetically relentless.

There’s no elegance, no gradual ascent—he’s determined to strip it all away, uses every trick at his disposal, and gods save him, she’s so responsive, twisting beneath his hold, all sinew and muscle as he fucks her with his tongue, gripping his hair like it is the only thing keeping her on the bed, pulling it as her hips cant against his mouth, demanding more, and _fuck_ , she rises so fast. Too fast, maybe, to pull her back from the edge, her moans building to a crescendo, incoherent at first but shifting into a pleading “ _No, no, stop, it’s—no_ ” and gods she tastes so good he almost doesn’t hear. And he knows, he thinks he knows, that it doesn’t mean _stop_ , but she’s still saying _nonono_ , still pleading and writhing, and he can’t— He stops, surges up to rest his chin against her stomach, digging it in just above her pubic bone as if to ground her, smirking when her eyes open, half-glazed and so impossibly dark.

“What are you doing?” she growls, looking positively mutinous, or as close as she can while panting, coiled, stripped just enough he can see the first pure glints of _her_ beneath the surface. He sticks out his tongue, flicks it across her navel just to watch her slight rise off the bed, the way her lips fall open.

“You asked me to stop,” he explains, more certain than ever she’d meant no such thing.

“I did _not_.”

“You did,” he grins, mimicking a girlish air that he doubts Brienne of Tarth has ever used in her life as he says, “ _No, no, nonono, no Jaime, no, stop!_ ” complete with heaving breathlessness. He’s fairly certain that she’s going to kill him, and what a way to go with her legs over his shoulders and the hair of her cunt at the base of his throat and the wide expanse of her skin before him, but she surprises him by laughing.

“I did _not_ sound like that.”

“You did. I thought I’d injured you.” As if to prove his point, he wiggles slightly, just enough for her already sensitive body to respond. Her legs tighten and her heels dig into his back, and whatever clever counter she has turns into a bitten-off moan.

“I hate you,” she finally mutters, flinging one arm over her face. “Never should have stopped.”

“You asked me to,” he repeats, seriously this time.

“I didn’t mean…”

He reaches up for her nearest hand, laces his fingers through hers, squeezes.

“This can be good.” He tilts his head to kiss the skin of her stomach. “Intense, and good. But if it… if you need to say no, there needs to be another way of saying stop.”

She’s actually blushing when she mutters, “No chance I’d ask for _that_ to stop.”

“You might,” he says softly. “It can be…” He struggles to find the word for the sensation he’d felt, when he’d drawn it out so long that his arousal was nothing but a painful ache in his gut that could not be released. “You might.”

The arm covering her face falls away, and she looks at him. Really _looks_ at him, open and guileless and _Brienne_. Her free hand reaches out, cups his jaw, her thumb stroking his cheek.

“Alright,” she says softly. “What sort of…?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “A word. Something you wouldn’t have reason to say.”

“Bear?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” he said, only just managing to suppress a shudder. “You might as well say Tywin Lannister and ensure I never wish for sex again.”

She smiles, the one he knows is very fond and a little indulgent of the things she finds ridiculous, and it makes her eyes—

“Blue,” he says. “Unless you have another suggestion.”

She nods. “Fine, just…” Her legs tighten against his back.

He gets the message. “Blue if you need to stop,” he repeats, sliding back down so he can scrape his teeth against the inside of her thigh. “And anything else…” He smiles and strokes her knee with his thumb. “Anything you need, really _need_ , tell me, yes?” She nods again, her bottom lip between her teeth betraying a nervous anticipation that makes him groan, makes him grind his cock against the mattress in a bid for relief, makes him want to see her more. “I’ll be slower this time.”

And he is, he takes her to the precipice and doesn’t let her fall, retreating to let the moment ebb away with murmured words and soothing touches, then strips away another layer three, four times. Carefully, carefully, each one dancing her closer to the edge than the last, guided by grunts and groans and a desperate whining moan that catches in her throat, until he forgets to be careful; he _aches_ for her, for her fingers in his hair and the thrust of her hips as she moves against him, and he uses it all, his tongue and teeth and the prickle of his beard, until her head thrashes and she’s babbling _nonono_ , near sobbing with it, until his jaw aches and she’s clenched the furs in her fist and the smell and taste and sight of her is all he can fathom, until every one of her muscles is taut, and then it’s fingers in the warm, wet heat of her and his tongue pressed just so, exactly how she likes it best. He expects her to scream, she’s been so close to screaming, but she arches in a silent rictus, skin flushed and mouth open and _fuck_ he can feel her strength like this and he’s only dimly aware of his own peak because he’s so lost in the blinding brilliance of _hers_.

She scrambles at his shoulders in the aftermath, draws him upward, kisses him softly. He looks down at her, strokes her cheek, taking it in. Everything about her is soft in the moment, all pleasure-hazed and languid, her smile and her eyes and the loose lines of her body at rest, and he nuzzles at her throat and swears he’s never seen anything more magnificent.


	5. Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeahhhh, updating every Saturday was a brilliant idea before the escalation of current events. Also yeahhhhh is the increased chapter count. Dear god, save me from myself. 
> 
> The chapter title will make sense once you've read this. It is TERRIBLE. I'm still laughing. This chapter was meant to be a serious examination of Jaime's issues, but apparently I'm incapable of it. Maybe next time. 😬

There is a rhythm to life in Winterfell, and always things to be done. It suits Brienne well, but it means that nights like tonight—both of them in their quarters shortly after the evening meal, and with no need to wake before dawn—are rare indeed. Long hours stretch before them, free to indulge in as they wish; they’d fallen into bed quickly, still dressed, but it has been slow since—slow touches and slow kisses and slow sighs as they tangle themselves together. The laces on his shirt have been loosened, from when she’d ducked her head to kiss down his throat to the small hollow at the base of it, but then she’d been distracted by the way he’d encouraged her back to his mouth, the way his tongue had curled around hers, the way he’d coaxed a bone-melting openness from her body, and any thoughts of undressing had fallen to the wayside. 

His hand is curved around her ribs now though, his thumb brushing over her nipple in time with his kisses, and she can feel his smile in the shape of his lips against hers; she wants the barrier gone, wants to feel the calluses against her skin, feel the heat of him beneath her palms. He’s pulled away, just enough to press sweet little pecks against the corners of her mouth, panting, and Brienne takes the opportunity to slip her hand between them to tug at the loosened laces; Jaime stills, then lifts his hand to lay it over hers.

“Not yet,” he says, guiding her hand back up to his neck, urging her close. “Gods, Brienne, I could kiss you for hours.” 

His lips pause a breath from hers, a question; she can think of no reason they should not. They have time. Whatever waits for them outside these walls, here in this room in the frozen north that they have made home, they have _time_. She closes the distance, revels in the sensations—the surprising softness of his lips and the lingering hints of the wine he’d had with dinner, the uneven curve of his teeth against her tongue. Kisses him again and again, sighs when his lips pull away to brush behind her ear instead, his fingers unraveling the loose knot of her tunic, his hand slipping beneath it to palm her breast. 

“Magnificent,” he murmurs, moving from ear to cheek to lips with scattered little kisses that tickle her skin. 

Brienne hooks her leg over his, pulls him closer, his thigh a steady pressure against her cunt; she rocks her hips, moans. Goes to do it again, because it feels so good, he feels so good, but his hand drops to her hip to still her and pulls away. He kisses her more adamantly, a tempting distraction. But she’d seen the apologetic grimace he’d quickly masked, feels the way he holds them slightly apart.

“Jaime,” she says, tearing herself away from his mouth. 

“Brienne,” he replies, darting his head forward to tug at her bottom lip.

She pulls away, a little more forcefully. “Are you—”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she counters. “Did I say something?”

“No!” he says, a little too hurriedly; she waits for an explanation, and he soon sighs. “This is wonderful, but we can’t—I’m not…” he gestures downwards. “I’m not....”

“Oh.” She pauses; he’s flushed red, his jaw set in determination, daring her to say anything. Her thumb strokes against his throat, her other hand running through his hair, soothing. After a moment, she asks, “Is it something that we’re doing?”

His eyes widen. “ _No_. You’re…” 

“Magnificent. Yes, you’ve said,” she says fondly. “That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s not you, or… this,” he says. Exhales in frustration, lips pressed in a firm line. “I don’t know _what_ it is.”

“Must it be anything at all?” she asks. This is not the sort of thing she heard talk of in camps, and only hurried whispers between women in castle halls, but… “Surely you’ve had days where you are tired, or distracted, or your footwork falters and your sword skills are lacking—”

“This is not comforting,” he grumbles, but the tension in his jaw has abated a little. “First my cock, now my swordwork…”

She resists the urge to roll her eyes. Ridiculous man. “You’re more than adequate with both, Jaime.”

He seems to find no humour in it though, his body tense and his expression bitter. 

“I suppose we ought to be grateful I still have my tongue,” he snaps. “And a hand, though just the one.” He raises it, wiggles the fingers derisively. “Come nearer, sweetling, I am a cripple after all.”

Brienne pushes him away instead, sits up, tamps down on the small sting at his sudden acerbity. “I don’t require a demonstration, thank you.”

“Probably for the best,” he sneers, though she doubts it is directed at her. “Who can say how I’d fail?”

“Piss off. That’s not what I meant.”

“Was it not, my lady?” His eyes glint, sharp and bright and as dangerous as his tone. 

Brienne crosses her arms, looks at him firmly. “No. And you know that perfectly well. If you are going to be horrid about it...”

He sighs again, sits up. Runs a hand down his face. 

“That was… unkind of me,” he says. “It is not you, I swear it.”

There is a strain on his face that she cannot quite reconcile, so she reaches out to brush her fingers against his cheek; his eyes flutter shut, and his lips part, and for a moment he seems adrift. 

“I didn’t imagine it was,” she says, gentler than she expected. “That does not excuse discourtesy.”

A terse nod. “No. Good. Not… it would never be you. You’re…”

“If you say magnificent again, I will pitch you from this bed.”

The barest hint of a smile graces his face. 

“So long as you know.”

She does; there have been too many evenings and mornings and stolen moments in the middle of the day to believe anything less. And perhaps she would be concerned if she were another woman, if the only weapons granted to her were feminine wiles and pretty words, if her well-being depended on her ability to please a man. But that is not who _they_ are, it never has been. His brow is still furrowed though, and so she keeps touching him. Uncertainly, waiting for his temper to turn again, for him to withdraw, but unwavering.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes still shut as he allows her careful exploration of the lines of his face.

“You’ve already apologised.”

“Not for— I am sorry that I can’t... ” He rolls his lips together. “For not being… _of use_ , this evening.”

“Jaime…” Her fingers pause as she looks at him, brow furrowing. “Is that what you imagine this is? _Usefulness_?”

He does not reply, which is answer enough; she wishes that it did not make such perfect sense, but half a dozen thoughts descend at once, memories that span years, slotting into place to reveal an image she ought to have seen before. 

“And what of me, Jaime? Do you judge my presence here by how efficiently I suck your cock? The wetness of my cunt?”

His eyes fly open as he recoils. “ _No!_ That’s—it’s not the same, Brienne.”

“It is precisely the same.”

“No. I should—”

She raises a hand to cut him off. “Do me the courtesy of presuming that if I have expectations of what you _should_ do, I will tell you, and that none of those expectations will have to do with your _usefulness in our bed_.”

He surges across the distance between them, wrapping his hand against the back of her neck to drag her into a fierce kiss, muttering _magnificent_ and _stubborn_ and _great bloody fool, you are too good_ , and she responds, pulls him close and then pushes him away, down against the pillows, basks in the way he looks up at her with open mouth and shining eyes. Bends over to brush her lips against the curve of his smile.

“I want you, ser,” she says softly. “Cock or not, tongue or not. To fuck, or to sleep, or to simply kiss until the darkest hours of the night.” 

He sighs, parts his lips, coaxes her nearer with the sweetest of kisses and his hand in her hair. 

Nights like this are rare, but there is time. They will make time.


	6. You Took The Words Right Out of my Mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was... intended for mouthfucking March, to show how behind I am. I'm adding it to the collection anyway and pretend. 😂 But the chapter title schtick remains my favourite thing, so... swings and roundabouts.

Jaime knows a reckoning is coming. He hears it in every beat of a raven’s wings bearing news from the south, feels it every morning that he wakes beside Brienne and can bask in those brief moments before duty calls. It’s been days since the last letter, since Sansa Stark’s words on a parapet. Days since he knew that he would have to—

He tries to keep it away from this room. Tries to keep it from tainting the one good thing in his life. He thinks she knows though, feels it in every bruising kiss, every sidelong glance she sends him from where she sits before the fire.

He will never tell her, for he knows it would be unwelcomed, but these moments, stolen from a future that can never be, are the sweetest of his life. He watches her, asleep in their bed and eating in the great hall and training in the yards of Winterfell, and thinks the inevitable wildfire that will sweep through his life will almost be worth it, if he can have this first. But his very favourite moments are ones like now; both of them seated before the fire, and she’s in her sleep garments and still so formal, as if she was in full armour instead, but her bare feet burrow in the fur rug and for a moment her eyes close and a small smile drifts across her face.

She’s beautiful. There is no qualification needed—not beautiful for _her_ , not transformed by firelight, simply beautiful. The sharp line of her nose, her jaw. The set of her shoulders. The gods know that she’s so much _more_ than beautiful, but in moments like this he allows himself to acknowledge her beauty, an indulgence just for him.

She stands abruptly, as if to shake off his unspoken musings, striding towards the table where a carafe of watered wine sits; he snags her hand as she reaches him though, tugs her gently off course to collide against his legs, and she recovers quickly enough to slide into his lap with surprising grace. It might have felt comical, her long limbs sprawled and her solid weight against him, but she sighs in exasperated contentment and relaxes against him and it simply _is_. He wraps his arms around her waist and nestles his face against her neck, unable to repress his smile when she makes some murmured protest and moves closer.

“You’re incorrigible,” she laughs, her hand stroking his hair.

“And insatiable.” 

Another laugh, and he quickly secrets it away for— 

“Impossible,” she says.

“Insufferable.”

Her hand hesitates, moves down to caress his cheek with a tenderness that might have felt fragile, in weaker hands. She tilts his chin up and kisses him softly, the only reprimand she’ll give him, then deepens it, catching his lip between her teeth, tugging, soothing with her tongue. It’s hot and strong, certain; he could lose himself in simply this, set aside thoughts of _should_ and _will_ in favour of _what could be_ , but after a moment she pulls away slightly and gives him a smile that’s a little shy and a little wicked and only ever shared with him. Then she slides from his lap to sink to her knees, and he watches her long fingers unknot his trousers with an elegant surety; he opens his mouth, some half-formed protest on his lips, and she stops it with a whisper soft _please_ that ghosts against his newly-exposed flesh. He nods once, and she quickly slides her hands into the waist to pull them down, laughing when he lifts his hips to make it easier. She laughs so easily in their chambers, until he hardly knows what to do with the joy. 

Brienne wraps one hand around his half-hard cock, strokes it soft and steady; before he can lace his fingers through her hair, tease her about her studious nature, she opens her mouth and— 

_Fuck_. 

If this were a duel, she’d be on the offense, beating him back with the wet heat of her mouth and the firmness of her callused grip and _fuck_ , she’s— His hand flails, finds the back of her neck, the ridge of her spine against his palm, and she’s fucking him, tongue and _teeth_ and fuck fuck, his hips jerk and she takes him deeper, her free hand cupping his balls, stroking behind them, and _fuck_ he’s not— not— _fuck she’s relentless_. It would be embarrassing how quickly she makes him whimper, if he had any shame left, but it’s stripped away with the same ruthless efficiency as his control. He just manages a murmured protest when the hand not on his cock falls away, but then she’s rising and shifting and there’s a rustle of fabric and he knows she’s slipped her hand beneath her own trousers, feels it in the half-strangled moan she gives as she touches her sweet cunt, and it’s impossible to see from where he sits but he can imagine it, _fuck_ , he can imagine it so well, and maybe they should—

 _Fuck._ Her hand is— fuck, her fingers are at his balls once more, gliding back, and _fuck_ they pause at his arse, and it isn’t the first time (he remembers the first time, days before, the same day the letter had— she’d blushed in the aftermath, when she’d told him that him inside her made her feel _safe_ and she thought… and all he could say was _yes, yes._ ), but she still waits for his nod, for the way he shifts his hips, and then she’s inside, slowly, one, then two, her fingers coated in the juices of her cunt to ease their entrance and he whimpers again, _fuck_.

“Jaime?” she asks, and her mouth is away from her cock and _he wants it back_. His hips jerk again, his hand on her neck urging her closer, and she pushes her fingers a little deeper, moves them sli— _ **fuck**_. She’s crooked her finger and hit a spot and _fuck_ it’s… it’s…

Fuckfuckfuck. Fuck. He shifts, spreads his legs further so she can, _fuck_ , _fuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK_ , he can’t, it’s too, fuck it’s so, _fuckfuck_ , he needs, needs, he’s practically off the chair because he needs, _fuck_ , he needs—

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, the word gasping even in his head, and his muscles are shaking and his breath comes short and heavy, and she’s still inside him and around him, fingers and lips, and he lifts a trembling hand to stroke the hairs at the nape of her neck until he can… 

When he has come back into himself, enough to notice the way the chair digs against his naked thighs and the way the firelight catches in her hair, she rises and murmurs that she must wash her hands and will be back in a moment; he nods, still dazed, and it is not much longer before she returns, slipping back onto his lap. He buries his face against the crook of her neck, breathes in her scent.

_I love you_ , he means to say as she strokes his hair, _I love you and I’m sorry there’s no other way_ , but the words don’t come. He holds her tight instead, nuzzles her throat, feels her small laugh as his beard tickles her skin. 

The reckoning can wait one more night. 


	7. Stayin' Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I swore I wasn't going to post the next smutlet until I'd caught up on comment replies (seriously, I appreciate them all so much and I _will_ reply, but my time is so limited at the moment), but Tumblr is full of things making me mad about 8x04 and Jaime's death in the courtyard, so... fuck it. It makes the chapter title funnier, at least.

He doesn’t go. He doesn’t go south to save his sister, doesn’t go south to face his sins. He doesn’t go south to die. And she doesn’t know what to say about it, doesn’t know what soft and womanly words might ease the pain it brings. So she holds him tightly and loves him fiercely and pretends that will be enough.

The evening the news comes from King’s Landing, she watches him; he’s solemn but does not break, converses as he would any other evening, and beneath the dining table she grips his thigh in silent solidarity. And when they are alone, their quarters stifling hot, he wavers and she is there to catch him, her strength worth something even if it is not a comfort.

“It does not feel—I thought I would know, when it happened,” he whispers against her shoulder, and she strokes his hair and murmurs soothing words and wishes, as she very rarely does, that her hands were not so callused, her touch not so rough, that there was some part of her as soft as her heart so that she might be a safe place to rest. 

“If I could…” 

But there is nothing to be done, no simple words that can erase the years, no way to unmake decisions long past. His breath shudders against her neck and his arms tighten at her waist.

“Remind me,” he says. “That I am here. That I…”

She would, she will, but she doesn’t know _how_ , the fierceness that has kept him here seeming harsh in the light of his grief, and she’s aware now of his hot tears against her skin even though he does not sob, and then he says, “I need your strength,” and… 

Perhaps softness is not the only comfort. 

“Alright,” she murmurs, slowly undressing him as she guides him to the bed. 

She’s careful, firm as she strips him entirely and presses him against the dark furs. One hand captures both his arms, pins them above his head and squeezes; his mouth parts as his head tips back, his eyes dark. 

“More.”

More weight as she comes to straddle him, more of her body against his. She keeps him there as her free hand trails down his arms, his torso, finds his cock and grasps it with certainty, strokes it once, twice, watching as his eyes drift shut.

“Jaime,” she commands, voice low. Releases his cock to flick the skin at his hip with a careful fingernail. “Here.”

The bastard has the audacity to smile at her, all languid arrogance, so she leans forward and nips his earlobe.

“Here,” she repeats against the shell of his ear. 

He shudders and cants his hips, sending a coil of desire deep in her gut. “Prove it.”

She parts her lips, softly scrapes her teeth down the line of his neck, feeling it bob beneath her tongue as he swallows hard, licks the hollow at the base of his throat. Bites his collarbone to hear his gasp, then soothes it with a kiss. Suckles and nibbles until his skin reddens, digs fingertips into flesh just hard enough to bruise. A careful dance of presence without pain, pleasure without hurt, a promise of _here, here, you are here_ that can only be conveyed by the physical. 

When she grasps his cock once more, her thumb sweeping over its head to spread the wetness found there, he makes a desperate groaning noise that seems to echo from his chest to her cunt; she aligns them, sinks onto him with a sigh of relief. Trails her hand up, over his stomach to rest on his chest, his heartbeat thudding beneath her palm. She sits there for a moment, savours the feel of him beneath her, the hunger in his half-hooded eyes. The hand holding his arms loosens so she can sit up properly

“Here?” she asks, quiet.

“Here.”

She fucks him slowly, pausing when he seems to slip away, calling him back with sharp pricks of pleasure-pain that make his eyes widen, his grip tighten on her hip. She’s careful, measured; patience is her greatest weapon here, her own pleasure to come later. And when he’s close, her name falling from his lips like a plea and his gaze on her with such awareness that it almost pains her, his fingers slide from her hip to the space between them, now-familiar motions igniting her climax so rapidly that she falls before him, though he is not far behind.

“Here?” he asks, grinning cheekily, when they have regained their breath, the spectre of King’s Landing far away if only for the moment. 

She kisses him, a teasing brush of lips before she rises from the bed to retrieve a cloth and water to clean them both. She wipes his come from her thighs, reminds herself to seek moon tea in the morn, and turns to him; the marks she’s left are dark in the firelight, and she smiles as she drags the slightly rough cloth against his skin. Her touch is gentle and there is no pain, but he gasps all the same, and she leans forward to kiss the corner of his mouth. Then she slips beneath the furs and draws them over Jaime as well, insinuating one leg between his and wrapping her arm around his waist, holding him. Presses her lips against his shoulder.

They are silent for a long time, though neither one of them sleeps, all the things unsaid and unknown keeping them awake.

"Some nights," he finally says, his voice a whisper in the dark, "I feel I am still back in the Stark camp, with some terrible festering wound, about to die in my own piss and shit. And these last few years have been... a dream. A trick of a fevered mind that I could regain my honour. Be who I ought to have been."

She is surprised by how much it makes her ache; she’d known, they’d known, that this would not be simple, but to hear him say...

"It takes more courage to live than it does to die," she murmurs back, lips brushing against his warm skin. "And besides, you aren't dying."

“No,” he agrees, “I’m not.”

She holds him a little tighter. 


	8. U Can't Touch This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, another smutlet that aligns with JB Monthly Madness's prompts, in this case masturbation. I feel the chapter title was suggested by somebody, if only because I always forget the U, so props to whatever genius that was. And also props to the lovely people who helped me revise this one, but it was weeks ago and fuck if I can remember who I bugged on this front. I need a better notekeeping system.

He hasn’t seen Brienne in days. 

No. It is worse than that, somehow—it has been nearly a fortnight since the raven bearing the news of King’s Landing had arrived, and they’ve been travelling to White Harbor for nearly as long. It’s a small group, with so much of the northern army already in the south and speed of the essence—Sansa and Bran in a wheelhouse, a dozen or so northerners, Jaime and Brienne and Pod rounding out the group. They’ve travelled light, and for long hours, and the little time they have been at rest has been taken up by sleep or sentry duties. Which means that he _has_ seen Brienne, more than he did most days in Winterfell, and yet they have barely exchanged two words beyond the logistics of their travel in all that time. It would, perhaps, be less intolerable if they shared a tent, a common space even if they only intersected in passing, but the little she sleeps is—rightfully—by Sansa Stark’s side, as duty would dictate. 

Absurd though it is—and it _is_ , he’s under no delusions about that—he misses her; after weeks of intertwined lives her absence is palpable, though she seems to have no such difficulties. There’d been a felled tree, two days back, large enough they’d had to turn back to take an alternate route; Brienne had offered to ride ahead to check the smaller path was clear, and before Jaime could offer to ride with her she’d asked for Pod to join her and left Jaime in charge of the rest. 

He clings, foolishly, to his hope they will have time on the ship; he does not know what they will find in the city, and he’s not certain the reckoning for his sins wasn’t simply deferred for a sparse handful of weeks. Any moment he can take before then is met eagerly, and so when they take the night in an inn in White Harbor instead of the tents that have housed them these past days—their ship will set sail in the morning—he wastes no time in catching Brienne’s arm as they settle at a dining table.

“Will you come to my room tonight?” he asks, voice pitched low. Brienne’s eyes immediately seek out Sansa, duty-driven as always, and so he hurriedly adds, “Lady Sansa will be more than safe here, and I would not detain you long.”

She gives him a look, all staid dullness, though he knows the mirth that dances in her eyes. “Not long, Ser Jaime?”

“On my honour,” he vows, resisting the urge to turn the conversation salacious; she sees it all the same, the slightest blush colouring her cheeks, easily dismissed as a reaction to the nearby fire. 

“Perhaps, then,” she concedes, still stiff, formal. “Though I make no promises.”

They take their seats at opposing ends of the table, the only places left, and eat a meal of stew and barely-stale bread. When they are done, he retires to a small attic room with a narrow bed and a pallet on the floor; he intends to take the bed, aware that Pod—whom he was meant to share the quarters with—has made other arrangements. It’s hardly fit for a Lannister—the only light comes from a tallow candle, and there is a thin hint of ice on the basin of water he uses to wash his face and hands as he prepares for sleep—but it is better than many a place he has rested his head. He has just slipped beneath the scratchy covers when there is a knock on the door; despite his request, he is surprised to find Brienne on the other side, already in her own sleep clothes.

“I thought I would say good night,” she explains, though she steps into the room when Jaime gestures her welcome. 

Once the door is closed he leans up to kiss her, a soft brushing of lips that is more than he has had in days.

“Jaime—” she says, pulling away. “I can’t…”

“No,” he agrees. “But come, sit and talk with me awhile at least. I’ve missed that dour face of yours.”

She rolls her eyes, taking his words with the complete lack of sincerity he’d intended, but follows him to the bed. He stretches out on it, gives her a smirk that makes her roll her eyes a second time as she perches on the edge.

“I only have a moment,” she says, firm and a little amused, and his hand reaches out to lace through hers; her grip is warm and solid and so welcome that he realises how very _much_ he has missed her. 

“We have made good time,” he says, and for a few moments they talk about the travel and the journey still to come, avoiding their destination at the end of it. He skims the soft skin at her wrist with his thumb as they speak, watches the way her lips part at every stroke. 

“Jaime—” she scolds when the thumb drifts higher, though her eyes are dark. “I mustn’t.”

He’s filled with an ornery urge to point out that no harm will come if she allows herself one moment of selfishness, though perhaps it is that the harm will come whether she allows herself to be selfish or not. The Seven know it’s coming for him, sooner or later. 

“Just a moment longer,” he requests, and there’s a sad sort of tug at her lips.

“Will it matter?” she asks, her voice low and raspy, with desire or some other emotion he cannot say. “I will leave this room, now or in another moment, perhaps two if you ask it of me. I will go to my bedroll by the fire in Sansa’s room, and I will think of you. And I will clench my thighs out of sheer aching _want_ and it won’t be enough.” 

_Fuck._ Whatever he was expecting, it was not this; he groans at the image her words paint. 

“And then?” he asks, cock stirring; he needs to know, needs to hear it from her mouth. 

She bites her lip. “I’m going to resist, but it will build, that ache, until I slip my hand between my legs—” she does, those long fingers of her sliding over the breeches to touch herself, pale skin against darker linen, and he grows harder, “—and imagine that you’re there. Think of you touching yourself.” 

He does, cupping his cock through the fabric of his breeches. Her eyes narrow. Evaluating. 

“Slowly at first,” she directs, her voice still low, “and then—” her own hands slide her laces loose, her hand disappearing beneath the waistband, “a little faster, a little more—” her hips thrust a little, her lip caught between her teeth once more, and she’s still dressed, still looks barely flustered, but he knows that beneath those layers there are the hard peaks of her nipples and the flush of arousal mottling her skin, knows the sounds she’s making as she keeps talking, talking, about how much she’d be thinking of him as she touched herself, soft little gasps and hitches, knows the tightly closed eyes that promise pleasure and the musky scent that will linger on her fingers long after her peak has passed.

He’s shoved the fabric of his breeches down now, freed his cock; he’s rough and stuttered as he grips himself, trying to match his movements to her breathing, wanting to come with her, and just when he thinks he can’t hold off any longer her free hand flails blindly towards him, grips his arm, squeezes, and she comes with this whining little protest and curls in on herself, and he arches off the bed and follows. 

When he has wiped his hand on his shirt and caught his breath, he turns to her, a teasing remark dying on his lips when he sees the expression on her face. 

“Brienne…”

She gives a small, half-hearted smile. “I’m going to be thinking about that,and it won’t even begin to abate how much I miss you in my bed.” 

“Then stay.” It’s a greedy, selfish thought, but he is a greedy, selfish man. 

She leans over and he thinks she means to kiss him, but she buries her face against the crook of his neck instead.

“Don’t make this harder, Jaime,” she says, softly, and it surprises him; they have parted for duty so many times and she has never wavered, not really, and any longing he thought he saw he’d long dismissed as his own wishes. She might choose duty, and he’d never deny her that, it’s one of the reasons he loves her, but knowing that it is not easy for her… he’s just greedy enough to be selfishly glad, and wraps his arm around her and presses a kiss to her hair. 

“I will see you in the morn,” he says, releasing his hold on her. She sits up, gives him a small smile. Leans over to kiss his lips once, soft and sweet.

“Sleep well, Ser Jaime.”

Before he can change his mind, she is gone and he is alone once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shameless plug time: signups for the [Jaime x Brienne Fic Exchange](https://jaime-brienne-fic-exchange.tumblr.com/) close May 31st, so don't delay signing up.


	9. Storm Comin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concept of this chapter: "Top me the way you want me to top you." That was it. Easy.  
> Execution of this chapter: "Uhhh, more soft sex?"
> 
> Title was a last minute substitution from the originally planned Beyonce (which didn't quite fit and is now being saved for a later smutlet), so it might only be funny to 4am Roccolinde. It's a [Wailin' Jennys song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OguVb3uSZTs) and it is absolutely a joke about orgasms.

The sky is overcast and heavy with the promise of rain when they make port outside of King’s Landing, in order to speak with the Stark commanders before making their way to the city; they are still well outside its walls when the stench hits Brienne, knocking against her like a wave of death and destruction. She hadn’t expected, this many weeks later—she wavers in the saddle, not even realising it until Jaime’s horse pulls nearer.

“Breathe through your mouth, ser,” he says quietly, steadying his nervous mount.

It helps, a little. Enough that they make their way through the still rubble-strewn streets without her losing her composure, though it is a near-thing; they move through places she once knew, past recovered bodies waiting to be burnt, past people trying to rebuild in the aftermath of devastation that ought not to have happened, and she wonders if she was complicit in this, in some small way. She hadn’t trusted Daenerys and yet stayed in the north, had begged Jaime to stay with the only words she knew. Perhaps they could have avoided… 

The group arrives at the keep and are greeted by a worry-worn Jon Snow—Aegon, by birth, and by all measures the nearest thing to a rightful king that Westeros has. Sansa embraces her brother, speaks with him in hushed tones for only a moment before they are all escorted to quarters in an unruined section. It doesn’t matter—the stench has permeated everything, an oppressive heaviness that makes her want to scrub it from her skin. She makes do with a basin on water left in her small but neat room, finds a sliver of lye soap in her bag; the grime of travel sloughs away, but she can still smell the city, can feel it clinging against her even once she has changed into soft trousers and a tunic for sleeping, and she wonders… she is no stranger to death, fought its army in Winterfell, but this feels different, somehow; people had walked the streets, washing had hung from ropes strung between destroyed buildings, a road away she’d heard children laughing, and all she could see, all she could smell, was the death, the char and rot and blame that lingered on her tongue. Her stomach roils as she perches on the edge of the bed, sinks her face into her hands, feels the weight settle on her shoulders. 

There is a knock on the door, a familiar pattern that tells her it is Jaime on the other side, but she is slow to respond, heavy, and before she manages to rise to her feet the door is opened and he steps inside, two goblets and a flask of wine nestled in the crook of his arm.

It is a small room, and it takes him only a few steps to close the door and cross it to sit beside her, awkwardly handing one of the goblets over.

“Drink,” he says, opening the flask and pouring her some wine.

“I don’t…” 

“It will wash the taste away, at least a little. The scent as well.”

She feels her face flush; she is a knight, and she thinks perhaps she should be above this, but then Jaime pours his own goblet and lifts it to his nose to breathe it in deeply. It is a heavily spiced wine, not particularly pleasant, but he’s right that it masks the taint of the city and so she drinks it slowly. They don’t speak, each staring at some point on the floor beneath their feet, but she’s aware of him, the press of his thigh against hers and the warmth of his body, and it lessens, just a bit.

_It must be worse for you_ , she means to say, or perhaps a simple, _I’m sorry_ , but the words don’t come, even thinking them the weight comes back and she realises her hand is trembling slightly. 

“I used to wish…” he begins, carefully, as if he’d rehearsed the words, and then sighs, braces himself. “I used to wish that it would not affect me so, would flee from it if only in my mind. It made it bearable when I had—when I _believed_ I had no other choice, though that was often a convenient lie.” There’s a twist in his lips, a huff of derision. “It did not make me a man I was proud to be, though, to turn a blind eye to the suffering of those I swore to protect. But I could not be subsumed beneath it either, not if I wished to be of any use at all.”

“How?” she asks, hoping that he hears all the questions the word encompasses, _how do you balance it all_ and _how do you not drown beneath it_ and a hundred more besides, and hoping even more that there is an answer; he gives a helpless shrug.

“I’m still learning,” he admits. “Choosing to hold my ground rather than retreat, finding something real and good to focus on instead. You help. It’s… _different_. Like running towards the truth instead of away, even if in that moment the truth is as simple as the way your hand fits in mine, or the shade of the sky. And then I can… I don’t _forget_ it precisely, but it lessens and I can breathe, or act, or… it helps.”

“Can you show me?” She’s not sure what she’s asking, precisely, but she remembers _more_ and _I need your strength_ and _here_ , remembers the jagged edges that had been smoothed away beneath her command, and it’s… safe, here. Safe enough to ask, even if it doesn’t… “Please?”

He turns towards her and the look he gives, dark and sombre and serious in a way that Jaime very rarely is, makes her stomach bottom out, but his hand comes to rest against her neck with a familiar gentleness, his thumb stroking slowly.

“If you have doubts,” he murmurs, “anything at all, you tell me.”

“Like last time.” She remembers a night in Winterfell when she’d been half out of her mind with want and he’d been so adamant. “Blue?”

“If that makes it easier,” he says, smiling, leaning in to whisper against her ear, “but stop will do.”

Some already-distant part of her realises that they’ve never discussed this when he is on the other end and they should, she knows him well and would never push if she was uncertain but they still _should_ , but then he’s kissing her, along her jaw, to the corner of her lips, and the thoughts drift away, lost to the careful way he presses his mouth to hers, soft little brushes at first and then his lips part and his tongue darts out, teasing. She opens her mouth, ready to deepen it, and he pulls away.

“Patience, ser,” he scolds, laughter in his voice. “Slowly.”

That doesn’t quite seem to be what she’d agreed to, and she knows she could stop this now, and it is not as if he has never taken the lead, but it _shifts_ and he’s asking— _she_ is asking—

“Brienne, we can stop this now.”

And perhaps that is best, but now that they’ve paused she can smell the city through the window, feel the heaviness, and…

“No, I want— I want to try.”

He captures her lips again, a soft tug at the top and then the bottom, drawing her focus, and she doesn’t know if she should—

“You can kiss me,” he laughs, and she feels the curve of his smile as he keeps kissing _her_. “Tunic off.”

“Yours or mine?”

His hand slips down, the back of his fingers skimming her throat, fingers catching the collar of her tunic, tugging it gently. “Off, ser.”

She draws away just enough that she can unlace it, casts her eyes down to focus on his neck, the hollow at its base, certain that if she lifts her gaze to meet his she will burst aflame, though whether out of desire or nerves she cannot say. So she watches his throat, the way it bobs when he swallows, the tendon that tightens as she allows the tunic to fall open and reveals herself to him. He slides his fingers from her collar, down her sternum, across her chest, and she is taken aback, not for the first time, by the confident tenderness in his touches, in the reverence as his fingers skim her skin, in the way his hand cups around her ribcage and it _fits_ , she fits. 

Gentle pressure has her laying back, and she has just a moment to study the stone ceiling before his face comes into view. 

“Focus on me, ser,” he says, and she can’t resist the raised eyebrow in response.

“If I’m not, surely that is your failing, _not_ mine.”

A pinch of her nipple, just this side of painful, makes her yelp.

“Focus,” he scolds. 

She watches him move down, the angle making it difficult to see more than the top of his head as he pauses at her chest—she does not have long to wonder what he intends, however, because the warmth of his breath tickles the underside of her breasts and then his mouth is there, soft lips and rougher beard, kissing from one to the other, and she shifts beneath the weight of his body draped over hers. He nips. She whines. He tugs at the arm of her tunic, and what had been perfectly normal linen moments earlier seems rough against her skin. 

Now is the moment she would tighten her legs around his waist, roll them so she emerged the victor, but there’s a lingering acridity in her nose and so she wiggles out of the tunic instead, huffs.

“Satisfied?”

“Not in the slightest,” he volleys back, sitting up. “Trousers as well, and then move up against the pillows. I expect you to watch me eat that luscious peach you call a cunt.”

It is so ridiculous a statement that she laughs, at least until she sees the expression on his face—she’s loath to call it harsh, or distant, or any of the other words she’s come to associate with men in command (words she is certain could describe her own), but it is… the gathering of heavy clouds on a horizon, the inevitability of a summer storm, the moment of anticipation that had always driven her to the cliffs of Tarth to greet it, seeking that first whip of rain against her skin. _Oh._ She unlaces the trousers and shoves them down as she shifts to lie against the pillows, watches Jaime shift as well, until he’s stretched onto his stomach and nestled between her legs. 

She would not describe his usual ministrations as sloppy; enthusiastic, eager, a sort of ruthless offense at times, yes, but _good,_ so good _._ But it is _nothing_ on the deliberate attention he pays now, the way he parts the lips of her cunt, runs a finger against its topography, making her jerk unexpectedly. Nothing on the way he swipes his tongue along her, teasingly dips it against her entrance, nothing on the way he nudges her with his nose, playful and firm in equal measures. He is careful, every motion so precise, measured, designed to demand her full attention, and she squirms against the mattress, raises a knee to give him better access, clenches her jaw when he deepens the pressure until it is just this side of pain, until his beard prickles and she can feel him deep beneath her skin.

“Watch me,” he growls, a rumble of thunder in the distance. 

Panting, she forces herself to open her eyes, unaware until she does that they’d been closed against the onslaught, and takes him in. His gaze is as dark as waves before a storm, indeterminate in colour and dangerous, a warning she’d never been one to heed; she twists a hand through his hair, feels it smooth and cool between her fingers, cants her hips in encouragement.

He bites the inside of her thigh and thrusts two fingers inside her, a bolt of sensation that makes her howl, and then she’s clawing at his shoulders, arching off the bed, anything to bring him closer, feel the sting of rain against her skin, lose herself to the oncoming tempest; it comes at its own time, a twist of his fingers and his mouth back on her cunt, his arm against her stomach to keep her still, changeable and unyielding as any storm, and then it eases suddenly, the lull as his mouth is lifted from her flesh.

“Touch yourself,” he commands, but what she hears is _brace yourself,_ knows that the glory of the storm is in the surrender, and then it breaks again, harsh and sudden; her hands flail, find her breasts, and she squeezes, pinches, anything for more sensation, mewls in the back of her throat, writhes and whimpers and her hands are everywhere, anywhere, she’s thrashing against the unforgiving pleasure, certain it will be her undoing, there’s a prickle in the air and then...

It’s a lightning strike, white hot light, behind her eyelids, in her limbs, her wailing shriek its thunderous echo, and when it has passed her muscles are still trembling, he’s still between her legs, pressing gentle kisses as he eases his fingers from her cunt, and she makes some form of protest and he laughs and rises up the bed, his still-clothed body sending a riot of feelings through her, He smooths hair away from her forehead with fingers that smell of her, nudges her nose with his. 

“Unlace my breeches,” he says, whisper soft. 

Her hands tremble as she does, as she shoves them off his hips, as he moves to lay over her. He kisses her, shifts onto one arm so he can ease himself inside her; it’s almost too much, her shirt against her breasts, his cock in her cunt, the teasing flutter of his fingers against her side, but he moves… slowly, deliberately once more, sliding from her almost entirely before coming back in, every motion demanding her awareness, and then he encourages her leg over his hip and it becomes subtle movements instead, deep and deeper, slow; she throws her head back, and every kiss, every thrust is a tiny wave of pleasure, the sea returned to calm after the storm has passed.

It is only hours later, when they are asleep in her bed, his breath deep and even beside her, that the rain comes, leaving the cool, damp scent of petrichor and the promise of spring in its wake.


	10. Don't Speak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has literally been sitting around since, like, August? September? and every time I think to post it the timing is terrible. 😂 Whatever. Time is an illusion and it's not as if there's a plot in this.
> 
> Chapter title is the No Doubt song. I continue to amuse myself, if nobody else.

They are summoned to a meeting in Jon’s quarters early in the morn, and though it is not said Jaime knows it is to address his role in the horrors of King’s Landing these past years—the people are frightened, and angered, and there is no one else left to punish. Even Brienne knows, he can read it in the tight press of her lips, in the way she dons her leathers and waits for him to dress so they arrive together, and he does not know how to tell her it is fine, that he’s known his reckoning awaits. 

The Starks have arrived before them, and Jaime thinks it was perhaps deliberate, that the siblings wished to make plans before… It does not matter, he will face whatever is to come with all the honesty and dignity he can muster, and trust that their love of Brienne will protect her from the worst of it. Tyrion arrives shortly after, and Edmure Tully and Robin Arryn and a few more northern lords. Allies in Jon’s claim to the throne, Jaime suspects, those deemed the most trustworthy. Brienne takes a seat between Sansa and Jon, shoulders squared and back straight and at ease with her place; she catches his eye where he sits at the far end of the table and gives him a tiny smile, the jerk of her lips and crinkle at the corners of her eyes and the movement of her brow there and gone in a flash, and he loves her more for it, even as he waits for it all to tumble down upon him.

The conversation is pleasantries first, then each lord accounting for what strengths they can bring to Jon’s claim. The young now-Targaryen sits sullenly, clearly unhappy with such a duty, but he will do it, Jaime can see it, and likely do it well if the others can be persuaded. It does not take long for the words to turn though.

“And what of Ser Jaime?” asks Edmure. 

“What of him?” Brienne replies, her voice cold. 

Edmure gestures towards Jaime. “He sits here, free. Many will mislike that.”

“He followed commands, as he vowed to do, until his duty to mankind outweighed it. He fought against the dead. More than you did, I believe.” Her voice is unwavering.

“Still,” the other man begins, but to Jaime’s surprise Sansa cuts him off.

“Say what you mean, uncle, or be silent. We’re no room to strew discord amongst us.”

Edmure looks almost chastised, but does not have the wisdom to let it lie, and in some way Jaime is grateful for it—best to get it out then pretend it is not in the mind of everyone at the table. “I meant, my niece, that most of the Seven Kingdoms will not like a king backed by…”

“The Kingslayer,” Jaime supplies when he trails off, and Edmure grimaces.

“The Westerlands will be fine with it, but I cannot imagine anyone else would be. He might be worth—”

“The Stormlands won’t support any move against him,” Brienne says, firm and certain.

“The Stormlands are a mess,” Edmure counters. “Who is Lord Paramount now?”

“Gendry Baratheon holds Storm’s End, by decree of Queen Daenerys, but I believe Lord Selwyn Tarth has been serving the role until now. He has little patience for politics and cunning, but he is well-respected amongst the Stormland lords. They will not support a move against Ser Jaime.”

“How can you be so certain?” Edmure sneers. 

“Because I have written to my father and told him so.” 

The news surprises Jaime, but he can see no falseness in her face, not then and not as he watches her argue, as stalwart and determined as she’d been that day in Winterfell, inexorable as a summer storm and immovable as a mountain in his defense, and feels a horrifying, shameful thrill deep in his gut. She does not falter or pander when sharp words are directed at her, just repeats her arguments—that surely the fight against the dead was trial enough for the gods, that with the Stormlands and the Westerlands and the North, with the Riverlands that no doubt remember a siege that ended without bloodshed, to harm him will anger, not placate. The Starks agree, when asked, but they allow Brienne to mount his defense until the lords are either swayed or silent and the conversation moves on. 

The meeting does not last long after that, and Jaime could repeat very little of what was said because he had spent most of it watching Brienne, trying to read beyond her stony face for hints of her true feelings, unable to forget the surety in her words, the quiet formidableness intended for his protection. When it is done, she is one of the last to stand from the table, her head bent low as she speaks whispered words with Sansa before heading towards the door. He rises and snags her arm as she goes to pass him, nearly drags her into the corridor and then into a small curtained alcove that goes unnoticed by most.

“Jaime,” she says, and there’s a softness in her voice now and it makes it _worse_ , how badly he wants to— to show her, to— “What is so—”

He surges upwards and kisses her, hard and bruising, trying to convey all the words of gratitude and praise and sheer desperate longing that stick in his throat but it’s not enough, it’s nowhere near enough, and he digs his fingers against the nape of her neck and steps closer, close enough he swears he can feel the heat of her body even through her boiled leathers. She pulls away though and he waits for the sharp slap, the _I defended you, you fool, but you are too much, you ask too much_ , but she merely bites her lip and nods, permission he doesn’t know he craves until she grants it, and his tongue slides against hers and he moves even closer, until his thigh is pressed between her legs and she gasps against his mouth and rolls her hips. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, drops his hand away, means to go for her laces, make her feel so good, but she shakes her head, squeezes his leg with hers, _like this_ her silent command, and it is so easy to comply, to press and kiss, get so close he’s nearly beneath her skin though they are both still clothed, to rub and rut and writhe, so easy to surrender to just this, just her. 

The fabric of his breeches, the motion of her leg, the desperate whines she swallows back with every rut of her hips, every press of his tongue, is too much, he can feel his climax on the horizon and his movements stutter, fumble, desperate for just a little more friction, a little more pressure, and then her hand is there, between them, cupping his still-covered cock, squeezing it with careful familiarity and it’s too much, too much, he wants her to peak first, wants the way her mouth parts and her skin flushes and her eyes are so dark with want they feel like the greatest depths of the sea, but it’s too late, his cock aches and he can feel it all and he bucks, spends with a vigor that pulls from deep in his gut, _fuckfuckfuck_ , and when it passes she is looking at his, fondly, and he pushes her back against the wall, kisses her, slides his leg tight against her cunt, braces himself; she understands and begins to rock once more, slow and tight and wide, then a little faster, a little shorter, he swears he can feel the heat of her scalding his skin and she takes her pleasure, rides his thigh and kisses his mouth and just as she is about to come she grabs his hair, her fingers tugging as she anchors herself to him and flies apart in his arms, and he kisses her even as they pant, as his spend dries tackily on his trousers, as he wipes the bead of sweat at her hairline with a stroke of his thumb. 

His mouth parts and he means to say… he does not have words for all that he means to say, even now, all the love and gratitude and admiration more than he can fathom, and it is his, so he kisses her again, a little softer, and slides his hand into hers, and hopes she knows all he cannot voice. 


	11. Cool Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wahey, title is from the Joni Mitchell song, because
>
>> All day I face the barren waste  
> Without a taste of water  
> Cool water  
> Old Dan and I  
> Our throats slate dry  
> Our spirits cry out for water  
> Cool clear water
> 
> cracks me up in the context of this smutlet. It might be a joke only clear to me, but what is fic if not for self-indulgence?

It seems to Brienne that she is occupied from sun-up until long after sundown, accompanying Sansa from meeting after meeting, and in the few moments Sansa is at rest she asks Brienne to accompany Jon instead, reluctant to trust her brother’s safety to anyone else--he may be the rightful king, or near enough, but many refuse the authority of a northern once-bastard who’d murdered the woman he’d called Queen. Jaime spends his days elsewhere--he won’t say where, but many nights he returns to her chambers coated in ash and dust and with a haunted look on his face, so she suspects he has found some purpose in rebuilding. They are both exhausted, but in these carved out moments there is a comfort in the way they come together; that she may come to rely on it prickles at her, a constant urge to keep defense high so she may never be surprised, but each night she slips beneath the fine silk sheets granted to them, twines arms or legs, brushes lips and teeth against skin or exposes her throat so he can suckle there. It does not always stay so chaste, but it is all variations of the same comfort and pleasure, the same reminder that they are not alone here in this city of shadows, and so it is no surprise the night she lies in bed and his fingers dance up her thigh and between her legs as they talk and there is no greater motive than the warmth it draws from her.

His touch is languid as they discuss the day--where Brienne had been, Tyrion’s latest ideas for resolving the question of Jon’s kingship, grain supplies for the city. There is no spark, no tightening coil that makes her breath hitch and her body shudder, just a lovely softening in her limbs, like still-warm wax.

“Don’t stop,” she says when he slows, shifting her hips slightly, and he laughs.

“I haven’t.”

“Oh,” she says, glancing down; now that she’s aware of it, she can feel how wet she is, down her thighs and between them, can see how his fingers slip so easily, no friction or pressure. She wonders if she should be ashamed, or...

She slides her hand over his wrist instead, wraps her fingers around and tugs it gently up to her mouth. He smells of her, the pads of his fingers wrinkled as if he’d spent too long in the water, and-- she takes his fingers in her mouth, sucks the taste of her from them, stronger than the hints she’s caught before. Presses her tongue against his fingertips, feeling each wrinkle and curve, the sensation strange but not unpleasant. From his dark eyes and parted mouth as he watches her it is a welcome action, and when her touch loosens his fingers move down again as he kisses her neck, slip knuckle deep inside her and press just so, and she comes with a soft gasp once, twice, gently lapping waves of pleasure, and they talk until sleep claims them both.


End file.
